


locks

by kasarin



Category: Kingdom Hearts
Genre: Blindfolds, Frottage, Handcuffs, Ice Play, M/M, who is his partner? we just don't know
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-07-17
Updated: 2014-07-17
Packaged: 2018-02-09 07:34:48
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,476
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1974330
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/kasarin/pseuds/kasarin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>The blindfold is, by this point, a pretty standard thing. The handcuffs, on the other hand, are entirely new.</p>
            </blockquote>





	locks

The blindfold is, by now, a pretty standard thing. If anything in this can be called “standard”. The first time it was tied securely around his eyes, he was tense as hell, and it took being pushed down and  _made_  to relax for him to accept the thing. But by this point, it’s pretty much expected.  
  
Being pinned down under the other’s weight is also completely normal, in this thing they do. Usually, it happens when he’s being shoved face-first into the mattress, or when he’s on his back and folded so far in half his knees are practically in his ears. Being held down and  _straddled_ , however, is a lot more rare. He used to think it was a way of giving him a break. Y’know, keep him from having to make excuses about the way he’s walking later on. But somehow, it always seems a hell of a lot more  _calculated_  than that.  
  
Thinking on the “why” isn’t exactly a great thing to do, though. Not when he’s pinned to a chair by rock-solid thighs straddling him, with his vision cut off and his head yanked back by a hand pulling his hair. Really, thinking on anything besides how long it’s gonna take before the man starts trying to make him  _beg_  isn’t a great thing to do.  
  
Not that he’s ever actually begged. Been fucked to the point of incoherency, yeah. But he hasn’t  _begged_.  
  
What he doesn’t expect — what’s completely and utterly  _new_  — is the sound he hears next. It’s a weird  _click-click-click_ , and it’s followed by a strange cold feeling around his wrist. Before he can do much more than frown, he hears it again, along with that same distinct feeling on his other wrist.  
  
Huh. That’s weird. Normally, his wrists go untouched, unless they’re being forcibly held down. Why do they have things around them?  
  
The man in his lap releases his too-tight grip on spiky hair and sits back; instinctively, the redhead attempts to follow him. But as soon as he does, he feels a sharp  _tug_  on his wrists, along with a clink of metal not unlike a chain.  
  
A chain. Something cool around his wrists, and a  _chain_.  
  
The son of a bitch cuffed his hands behind the chair.  
  
His immediate disapproval is kinda hard to miss, what with the scowling and the way his body tenses up. But, as usual, that doesn’t get him anywhere, and he’s stuck forcing himself to deal with it while trying to think of a way outta this.  
  
Hmm. The other man’s still straddling his lap. No doubt about that. So his head should be somewhere over there…. Maybe if he smirks like  _this_ , and leans towards him like  _this_ ….  
  
“Handcuffs?” he asks, and his voice is a carefully crafted purr. “Isn’t that a surprise.”  
  
When he doesn’t get a response, his smirk fades, and his scowl makes itself known again. “You just gonna leave ‘em like this, or are you gonna—”  
  
The last of his question is lost as the body in his lap moves. He closes his mouth and stills, trying to figure out what the other man’s doing. Not an easy thing to do, while pinned down and blindfolded. He strains his ears, trying to pick up some kinda clue….  
  
Then he hisses as something  _freezing cold_  presses against his chest. The hell is that …  _ice?_  It’s gotta be. Before he can do more than clench his teeth, it starts moving, dragging slowly down his bare chest towards his stomach. He barely resists the urge to squirm as it slides lower and lower, then slowly makes its way back up, leaving behind trails of moisture that feel like they’re etched into his skin. He grinds his teeth and forces himself to remain still as the ice glides along his collarbone, up the side of his neck, and over his cheek. It nudges against his lips, and he releases a huff of air through his nose before he parts them….  
  
Salty. Sweet.  
  
It’s a goddamn bar of ice cream.  
  
He  _snarls_  and twists away from it, pain flaring in his wrists as he jerks at the cuffs, desperate to tear off his blindfold and  _maim_  the son of a bitch for using  _that_. But a hand slams down over his mouth, and the bastard’s voice growls for him to be still.  
  
Like hell is he gonna be  _still_. He keeps jerking against the cuffs and struggling to throw the other man off, which only prompts the body straddling his to move  _with_  his struggling and squirming and—  
  
— and  _fuck_  if that doesn’t feel good.  
  
He stills abruptly, breathing hard through his nose. He can’t move his mouth at all, with the hand clapped over it. Can’t even curse the bastard. He’s trembling, his hands aching to  _strike_  the man, or to grab onto him and shake him until he admits he was wrong to use  _that_.  
  
But then the reward for his stillness comes in the deliberate  _roll_  of hips, and he twitches, inhaling sharply through his nose. That’s not fair. Dammit, that’s not fair at all. And yeah, fairness has never really played into this, but…. Hips roll again, slow and  _hard_  and exactly the way he’s been wanting it, and his fingers twitch in a whole new way, and it’s  _so unfair_.  
  
The hand over his mouth doesn’t lessen its grip. The other man knows him well enough to know that a little  _friction_  isn’t gonna be enough to subdue him. And so he’s forced to keep struggling for air through his nose, while the body in his lap presses close and keeps right on grinding down against him. Harsh, agonizingly slow rolls of hips, mimicking exactly the sort of movements the man makes on those rare occasions when the Eighth is _inside_ him, and dammit, he is  _not_  gonna fall for this. He’s gonna hold out until the man releases his mouth, and then he’s gonna get out of this whole situation.  
  
The man in his lap keeps right on grinding, but he’s gonna hold out.  
  
He’s struggling for air, but he’s gonna hold out.  
  
He’s shaking with restraint, but he’s gonna hold out.  
  
His hands jerk, the chain connecting them noisily announcing his betrayal as his hips rise up to meet the man’s next movement.  
  
Fuck. Fuck, why does he always  _lose?_  
  
The hand pulls away from his mouth and lips meet his, everything about them aggressive and dominating and leaving him no room to try and squirm away. It’s always like this. There are never soft or sweet kisses, like the kind he used to hear about in stories. It’s just control and power and more control, and he’s always the one without. He’s always the one following.  
  
Briefly, the grinding against him stills, and he feels hands working between their bodies while lips work against his own. Then cool air hits him, and he shudders before he’s taken in hand,  _squeezed_  right up against the other man’s length. Hips grind again, and the hand mimics that movement, and—  
  
_Oh_. Oh hell. He’s not gonna last at all.  
  
But he’s never allowed to  _not_  last. He’s never allowed a quick release, no matter how much he wants it. The other man drags it out as long as he possibly can, then longer still, until the redhead’s sweating and shaking and  _moaning_  against him.  
  
And this time is no different. This time, it’s even worse. His wrists are raw from tugging uselessly against the cuffs that bind them, but the locks hold, and his harsh breaths and low groans are interspersed by hisses of pain when he forgets himself and pulls again. He’s shaking, shaking all over, and he swallows his pride and acts as submissive as he possibly can without actually  _begging_  for release.  
  
Because he won’t beg. He’d rather be kept on that agonizing,  _painful_  edge for as long as his body can last than  _beg_.  
  
The man tries to make him, of course. He squeezes too tight and hisses in his ear, telling him to  _beg_  for his release.  
  
But Axel never does. All that comes out is the other man’s name, gasped with so much desperation that the passion almost seems  _real_.  
  
It’s enough. And when his body is finally allowed to go completely limp, and he feels a tongue tracing up his neck, he tilts his head back without needing even a hint of encouragement.  
  
It’s not fair. It’s never fair. Every time, he loses. Every time, he winds up following along, until — at the end — he’s utterly spent and completely submissive. But even knowing how it’ll end … he can never find it in himself to refuse.  
  
The next time the man snaps handcuffs over his wrists, all he asks is if they can have a little padding next time.


End file.
